


the weight upon my shoulders has crushed me where I stand

by satellitescales



Series: the Ephraim lore dump [2]
Category: Red Rising Series - Pierce Brown
Genre: Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Original Character Death(s), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satellitescales/pseuds/satellitescales
Summary: The worst few years of Ephraim's life started with a phone call from his sister-in-law.Just gonna say right off the bat: this one is a non-stop traumafest. No happy endings here. Ephraim has had a rough life - here are some of the roughest times of said life.
Series: the Ephraim lore dump [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078382
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	the weight upon my shoulders has crushed me where I stand

**Author's Note:**

> title is lyrics from FOXTRAX's song Grey Morning

It all starts with a phone call.

Those are innocuous enough. Ephraim gets them all the time at Piraeus. He sits back at his desk and accepts the call. There is silence from the other end. Any other day, he’d hang up, but something about this silence feels different, preparatory.

When the silence breaks, it’s Holiday on the other end. “Eph . . .” she starts, voice hoarse, hollowed out.

_Something is wrong._

"Where is Trigg?” Ephraim asks.

Holiday chokes, or scoffs, or something else. She’s silent for a few seconds too long.

_Something is very, very wrong._

“What did he—” She loses her voice. “What did Trigg say to you before he left?”

“Where is he?” Ephraim asks again, more forcefully. “Holiday—” Someone in the cubicle opposite leans back in their chair to shush him. Ephraim would flip them off but he doesn’t think he could manage it with his hands shaking so much. His chest is getting tight.

“Trigg is dead,” Holiday chokes out.

Ephraim’s world shatters. A horrible groan escapes the back of his throat. His vision blurs. The walls close in, the ceiling comes down. Senses bottoming out until it’s just the waves of grief eroding his brain and the white noise from Holiday’s end. He’s doubled over in the chair, nauseated, pressing the phone to his face. He can’t breathe, or see, or process anything but the fucked up reality that’s just been dumped on him.

“How?” He hears himself ask. A selfish part of him doesn’t want her to answer.

She does. She inhales static over the shoddy connection. “Trigg and I were on a mission for the Sons of Ares. Things went south.”

The world opens up again.

Too quickly, too fast.

A printer whirs and sputters. _Sons of Ares_. Day-old coffee stinks from the break room. _Sons of Ares_. The overhead lights buzz and glare. _Sons of Ares_. Someone scratches a pen on paper. _Sons of Ares_. The tie too tight around his neck. _Sons of Ares_. Clacking of computer keys. _Sons of Ares_. Idle chatter. _Sons of Ares_. Feet muffled on carpet.

_Sons of Ares._

“We have been with them for a while, working undercover in the Thirteenth.” Holiday talks. Her voice is a drone in his ear spitting information he’s only barely processing. “This one was the biggest mission we’ve ever done. We were sent to rescue the Reaper. Before you—before you _say_ anything out loud, the execution was a farce. It was all planned. He was being held in captivity. Trigg and I got him out, and when we were escaping, two Olympic Knights found us and . . .”

And now he’s dead.

Trigg, the farm boy with a heart bigger than his chest, who loves sunsets and star-filled nights. Trigg who drinks too much coffee. Who spends too much on hair gel. Who is a _Son of Ares._ No, _was._

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“It was too dangerous, and you’re too . . .” She trails off, sighs. “You only care about Trigg. If you knew what we were doing, you’d do everything you could to stop us. This meant something to him, and it means something to _me_. It started after what happened in Hysperia. He joined the Sons that day because he wanted change. He wanted a world where shit like that doesn’t happen. All you ever wanted was a world with Trigg.”

“How is that a bad thing?” His voice breaks.

“It’s not— It’s . . . This is about more than us; it’s about the future of the Society. You don’t care about that, at least, not from what I’ve seen.” She falls quiet again. The watch on Ephraim’s wrist _tick, tick, ticks_. He barely feels the floor beneath his feet, the phone in his hand, the beating of his heart. “Look, Ephraim, I’m going to level with you. Trigg loved you, and he wanted change, and I know you do too—even if only a little bit. We could use someone like you. If not for me, or the Sons, do it for him. This was his fight. It can be yours now.”

“Which one?” Ephriam croaks.

There’s a pause before Holiday says, “What?”

“You said the Olympic Knights . . . Which _one?_ ”

“Aja,” Holiday says. “Protean.”

_Aja au Grimmus_. Ephraim’s heard the stories, seen the holos—hell, she’s one of the Furies. What’s that saying? Never fight a river . . .

“You join, and you can help take down people like her. Tyrants, war criminals, torturers, slavers. You can save others from her.”

Ephraim almost laughs at that. As if that matters now. _Others_. As if there’s anyone else in this broken world he cares about _saving_. What matters is that Trigg is . . .

He’s—

He’s dead.

Fuck, it _hurts_. It hurts deep in his chest and down in his bones and it makes his veins feel like they’re full of lead.

What matters is that Trigg is dead, and Aja is still out there.

* * *

The following day (day two of being unemployed and utterly lost in life. _Cool_.) an unmarked package arrives on the doorstep of Ephraim’s apartment. He stares at it for a few minutes, wondering how it got here, who handled it, who set it here. He knows what’s in the package. It’s the right size.

The last two years of his life come down to this.

A ring in a cardboard box, cushioned by month-old newspaper.

It’s so bleak, so impersonal. This is all he has left of Trigg. A thin metal band. 

He takes it off the doorstep—a robotic motion, body acting out of compulsion. His thoughts are a thick and neverending fog of agonized questions. Where is he now? How did it happen? Did he suffer?

Of course, he suffered. It’s death. Those idiots that say death can be peaceful don’t know shit.

He heads back inside and leans against the closed door, slumping to the ground. He tears the package open, fingers numb. It’s there, inside, like he knew it would be. The shine mocks him—inanimate, _lifeless_. Only when he takes it out of the paper and holds it between his fingers does he notice the blood.

It’s not a lot. A few little flecks on the outside, and a dark smear on the inside. This is all that’s left of him. Ephraim holds the ring close to his heart, head hanging between his knees, and cries.

The world is so loud. He knows this and has lived it but now it’s more obvious and grating. Everything moves too painfully fast until it’s all a smearing blur passing by. That or each hour feels like three. He didn’t feel that way with Trigg. 

Trigg, who is gone and never coming back.

Ephraim sobs until it hurts. Until his stomach cramps from heaving and his lungs strain with hyperventilation. Until there are no more tears and he’s just choking on his tongue in a darkened, empty apartment.

The grief comes and goes in waves. The anger stays. It’s a cold, clawing thing, with no boundaries—it hates _everything._ Aja, that massive Gold monster who _killed_ Trigg. Holiday, who was there and couldn’t save him. The Reaper for living while Trigg is cold and quiet somewhere alone. The Society for creating situations where this happens. Himself for not somehow preventing this.

How is he supposed to live a normal life after _this?_ Everything he had is gone because _Trigg_ was all he had. What does tomorrow look like? The next day? The future they promised each other is gone, dashed away in an instant. There’s no way he’s going back to Piraeus and pretending everything is fine, fuck no. Maybe Holiday was right. Maybe he could be doing something in the Sons—hitting Gold back, turning all these emotions into something usable, making change in his life.

First, he has to get off the floor.

* * *

They stand less than two meters apart. Feels like worlds. The Promenade rises behind her, darkened into a shadow with the sun behind it. Holiday is exhausted, eyes ringed, fresh scars score her exposed skin, and her mohawk’s grown out. She seems taller somehow, like the grief turned her into some sort of monolith. When was the last time Ephraim saw her? Months ago? Has it already been a year?

The Promenade is mostly empty. Work day. Distant chatter drifts between skyscrapers. A few stragglers sit scattered around on benches or at fountains. Trash rolls in the breeze.

Finally, Ephraim manages to speak. “Where were you?” When he was grieving. When his life fell apart. When he had to arrange the funeral by himself.

Holiday gestures vaguely over her shoulder, to the past. “War.”

“Right.”

Ephraim digs the toe of his shoe in a crack in the sidewalk. He knew it’d be different without Trigg. He knew seeing her for the first time since he died would be strange. He didn’t think it would be impossible to talk to her.

She clears her throat. “I heard you joined.” _Joined the Sons of Ares_. 

Ephraim nods, numb.

“What do you do?”

“I find people.” _Recruit them. Get them sucked into the same cause that killed Trigg._

Holiday bobs her head knowingly. “You’re doing good work, Eph.”

If only he could bring himself to believe that. He makes a noncommittal noise of assent.

“How are you feeling?”

That does . . . something. Ephraim laughs. He’s laughing and then he can’t stop, sent into a spiral of hysterics. How is he feeling? How is he _feeling?_ How the fuck does she think he’s feeling? His whole gorydamn life has been upended! He’s been sleeping on the floor because he can’t bear to sleep alone in his bed anymore. He can’t get through the day without at least a dozen burners and a fistful of downers. Trigg is a rotting skeleton on Mars and Holiday wants to know how he is _feeling?_

She’s looking at Ephraim the way someone looks at a starved street dog. Pity with just a pinch of disgust. Just a bit of _I moved on, why can’t you?_ Ephraim doesn’t care. He’s long past caring.

They talk only a little bit more—filling the silence, really—before Holiday says she has to leave, and they part ways. The next time he sees her is in the Sons base on Luna.

* * *

Vengeance, as it turns out, is pretty unsatisfying. Turns out killing a handful of Golds won’t bring Trigg back (who would have guessed, right?). Not that it feels bad or anything—it’s a fine distraction from the pain of living. Gets the blood pumping too.

They call Ephraim and his unit Scar hunters. It’s a badass name for what is essentially clean-up duty. Bag any Peerless the Howlers or whoever missed in their last mission. The stragglers, outcasts, and runaways. These Golds are a slimy bunch. Usually they hunt alone because their own messed-up Color won’t have them. The Sons send out a handful of mid and lowColors to pick up the pieces while the Golds go off killing each other some more.

Same war, different day. 

Scar hunting isn’t a _bad_ gig, it’s just . . . something to do. The first few kills were satisfying but now it’s just another job. Something to sink into the background so he doesn’t have to be alone with his thoughts. Training recruits, taking names, and kicking Gold ass is a fine distraction from the depressive rut he’s found himself in for the last two and a half years. Doesn’t hurt that he’s naturally good at it as well.

The gym—a gutted manufacturing plant just outside the Eternal City—is crowded and loud. The air is heavy with sweat, clamorous with countless conversations, and buzzing with an ever-present zealous excitement that never fails to get on Ephraim’s nerves.

Ephraim is standing on a pleather exercise mat. The ends are frayed and the whole thing is limp with a fair number of stitches and dubious stains. It smells like piss and sweat. Across from him is Cyriss, a short young Green with a sweep of lime hair that looks like it was stapled to his forehead. He’s constantly brushing it out of his eyes. The kid is barely eighteen, with gangly limbs he still has yet to grow into and a lot of misplaced confidence. The way he dances around the mat reminds Ephraim of how excited he was at that age to be part of something big. Granted, his ‘something big’ was the Legions, which turned out to be a huge mistake.

Cyriss charges him. Ephraim swerves to the side and swings his fist. The kid’s faster, out of reach before Ephraim can do any damage. He bursts up in Ephriam’s blind spot. Ephraim dodges a well-intentioned but sloppy right hook. Almost trips. Lean forward. Footing regained only to realize this dumbass left his core exposed. With a jab to the ribs, Cyriss is rolling on the mat.

“If I were a Peerless—”

“I’d be dead, I know,” Cyriss groans, “ow . . .”

“You’re going in too strong. Your goal isn’t to kill. You can’t kill a Gold with your bare hands,” Ephraim prods Cyriss with his shoe. He slumps up into a seated position, still holding his abdomen. “Or overpower them, even. There’s enough stopping power between a pair of Gold fists to crush a railRifle like a beer can. Your brittle Green bones won’t stand a chance.”

“So why are we doing this?”

“Cause it’s funny watching you fall on your ass,” Astan sneers from the bench. She flashes a wide, dimpled grin. Her orange hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and she holds a water bottle in one hand.

“True,” Ephraim says, “but that doesn’t help.” Then, back to Cyriss. “This is about _outsmarting_ them. Golds are huge fuckers, but they’re slower than you, and they play by their own arbitrary set of rules. It’s your job to learn those rules and use them against them. Shiny?”

“I guess . . .” Cyriss says sorely. He accepts Ephraim’s hand and stands to his feet, slouching. He blows his bangs out of his face.

“We’ll work more tomorrow. Go take a shower, you smell almost as bad as Lacertas’ simSuit.”

That earns a giggle from Cyriss. He leaves with a hasty wave, joining up with the few friends he has outside the unit. Ephraim slumps down on the bench next to Astan. She’s got a few years on him. Her thinning curly hair is a lazy sunset orange. Wrinkles crease her light brown skin.

She sniffs the air. “You’re on it again.”

“You can smell it?”

Astan laughs, leaning back. “Nah, but you look like a zombie. Got that dead stare. I doubt the kid has noticed yet, but everyone else can. Not a good look for the leader of a unit to be zoning out on pills all the time.”

“I’m doing fine, aren’t I? It doesn’t hurt my performance, you know this.”

“Can’t be good for your brain.” She takes a sip of her water and offers it to Ephriam. He shrugs it off.

“Don’t worry about me, old girl. And don’t go complaining to anyone about me, either. The other day some braindead idiot went through my bag, took half my shit. I don’t want to hear that was your doing.”

Astan puts her hands up. “I didn’t say nothing, cool down. And I won’t tell your girl, Holiday, either.”

“I don’t—wait, what makes you think she’s _my girl?_ ”

“She’s the only person you talk to other than me and the rest of the squad. And you’re scared of her.” Astan winks.

“She is a family friend, and everyone is scared of her. She’s a Howler.”

“True.” Astan nods sagely. After a moment she hefts off the bench, slapping a sweaty rag down where she was sitting. “Lacertas and I are heading out tonight with a couple of others, and since you’re just the _life of the party_ . . .” She pulls a slow smirk. “I had to ask if you wanted to come.”

“I can’t tonight.”

Astan snorts and shakes her head. “Figures. Well, have a good night, or whatever that means for you. Just don’t drink yourself to sleep, alright? Cause everyone can tell the next day. Do something . . . moderately healthy, if you can. Find a Pink, get some good food, drink some water—you know what water is, right?”

“Why are you doing this?”

"Maybe I care. Maybe I don’t like it when our leader’s a hot mess. Does it matter? From one sad son of a bitch to another, take care of yourself. Other people rely on you.”

_So did Trigg. Look where that got him._

Ephraim stares at his hands as Astan walks off.

* * *

This is it.

This is where he dies.

“Don’t rat!” Lacertas screams. The Gold holding him down keeps peeling away layers of skin like it’s nothing. Lacertas is still howling, Blue eyes wide and bloodshot. His throat finally gives out and his cries turn into a desperate, animalistic choking. The sounds echo off the cracked ceiling and crumbling walls.

“This could all be over so quickly,” The Gold purrs. He slips the laser scalpel under the skin of Lacertas’ wrist, peeling with such precision there’s no blood, just the stink of cooking flesh and the whirring of the electric blade.

Ephraim dry heaves, pitching forward onto the concrete, hands bound behind his back. Yet again the Peerless behind him pulls him up by the hair. He has to watch.

Lacertas is the only other one still alive, though only barely. He’s slipping, eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, jagged breathing losing rhythm. His exposed muscle twitches and spasms against the open air. Discarded on the floor behind him is Astan, what’s left of Cyriss, and the rest of Ephraim’s unit. They’re just a blurry mess of red flesh marbled with milk-white sinew and fat. Flies already swarm the pile of meat.

It all happened so fast. A tip about a loyalist hiding out on Endymion, a seemingly empty building, then—traps. The motherfuckers came out of the walls and floor, dropping from the ceiling like bats. The ambush was a frenzy of movement and action. This is the opposite. Time slows to a crawl. Ephraim’s eyes are seared with hours of watching his friends being tortured for information. He doesn’t remember what the Golds want. Names, locations, codes, passwords? It’s all the same.

Ephraim and his team haven’t told the Golds anything, but this isn’t about information anymore. It’s about the spectacle. It’s about having control over another person and watching them break under it. And oh, have they broken. Their screams seemed to stretch out until blending with the wind shrieking through the building. And ever the Gold works—slowly, deliberately, almost lovingly.

Something wet slaps to the floor. Ephraim refocuses his eyes. It’s the skin from the back of Lacertas’s hand, cuts so clean it looks like a glove. Lacertas is limp in the Gold’s grip, Blue sigil standing out brilliantly against open flesh and the protrusion of bone. Ephraim stares at his mutilated friend, Lacertas only just holding on to consciousness. The pain he’s in must be immeasurable. Ephraim is so exhausted all he can think is _thank Jove that’s not me._

A crash rings out through the building. This, Ephraim has gotten used to. The warehouse is barely holding together. What catches his attention are the heavy footfalls that come after it. Then, shouting. The Gold holding Ephraim in place sees something he doesn’t and his grip tightens in Ephraim’s hair, pulling painfully on his scalp.

Then _they_ flood in. Sons of Ares in combat gear, a smattering of Howlers, and Holiday at the front of it, wolfcloak hanging off her armor like some storybook hero.

Someone shoots the Gold holding on to him and Ephraim falls to the floor. His joints scream and all he can do is unsteadily bring himself up to his hands and knees. Holiday stands over him, heroics crumbling once she sees the state he’s in. With her help, he gets to his feet. It’s all he can do not to look at his mangled friends. The wounds on his chest burn. Somewhere along the line, he realizes he’s crying. Didn’t think he had enough water left in his body to do that.

There are Golds with her. They mill about the room, examining, searching, analyzing. There’s a swarm of them so tight around the Gold with the laser scalpel that Ephraim can’t see him anymore. They work professionally, detached from all this violence as if their kind didn’t produce this carnage.

Ephraim thought the pain would be too much to bear. He imagined himself hunched over, shivering, babbling—inconsolable. Yet here he is, walking out with the help of Holiday, away from it all. They leave the building and stumble out into the dirt, then up her ship’s ramp into the cargo bay. Ephraim doesn’t feel the movements, just allows his body to work on its own. They pass various Sons running in and out of the ship. Some salute Holiday, most just stare at Ephraim with a horrified pity.

There are so many people here. Where were they when this started? Where were they when the first blood was spilled? When that Gold started to . . . to . . . 

If Ephraim sees another pair of Gold sigils he’s going to vomit.

He’s still back there, in that building, watching it all. The scene plays against the dark of his eyelids. Wind sounds just like the screams of his friends. The stink stays with him, on his clothes, in his hair. Will he ever be rid of this smell? And the laughing, the way the Gold started laughing when Ephraim begged him to stop . . . he can still hear it in the back of his head.

Or—

Wait.

Ephraim turns around. Holiday tries to keep him moving but he shrugs her off, staring down the ramp at the group of Sons leaving the building. Ephraim waits for a gunshot that doesn’t come. Or the swift fall of a razor. Or a knife. Anything. It doesn’t happen. The Gold just continues to laugh, still tenaciously alive.

Why aren’t they putting the Gold in the dirt? Isn’t that what this whole thing is about? Taking out people like that—punishing people like that?

Holiday is speaking quietly to Ephraim, trying to get him to come further into the ship so he can see a medic. He doesn’t want to. He wants to know why the fuck the Gold is coming out of the building. He marches within a throng of Sons and Howlers, standing above it all like the brutal genetically engineered killing machine he is. Even with his hands bound and a fresh bruise making his eye look like a rotted peach, he grins like the king of hell. Bloody handprints claw up the side of his armor. Handprints from Astan and Lacertas and Cyriss and all the others.

They are taking him alive.

Alive, while all Ephraim’s friends—innocent people, people who relied on him—rot on the cold concrete.

Ephraim doesn’t realize he’s reacting until Holiday is grabbing him and dragging him back into the ship. He continues to thrash and scream. Adrenaline sears into his system, only amplifying the pain. _This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. What the fuck are they thinking?_ Ephraim is kicking and trying to wrench free of Holiday but she’s stronger than him, holding him back. The Gold floats past in a crowd of Sons. His eyes are locked with Ephraim’s, cool as stone while Ephraim seethes. That fucker knows. He _knows_ how easy he’s getting away with this.

Holiday is screaming at him now. Ephraim is screaming back. His bones scrape against each other, his nerves fray, his voice tears up his throat. It’s all so painful but he can’t just sit still right now. Why can’t they see? Why are they letting this _thing_ keep sucking down air? Is this what he’s fighting for? Is this what Holiday wakes up every morning for?

Is this what Trigg died for?

That does it. That last realization saps all the energy from Ephraim. He slumps against Holiday, barely feeling the weight in his heels or the cracked skin of his lips. He’s reopened some of the wounds on his chest. They hurt the least of all this.

What is this cause if it spares people like that while Trigg is dead?

What is this all _for?_

“Are you done?” Holiday asks curtly, still pinning Ephraim’s arms to his back.

Yeah.

He’s done.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're curious, the simSuit is not a piece of tech in RR - I made it up. Essentially what it is is a suit worn while in sims that last multiple days. It's got connectors and tubing for IVs and waste disposal and, you can imagine, smell pretty bad after a few days in a sim


End file.
